


Strictly Unprofessional

by SadistSenpai



Series: Id and Ego [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Godly Intervention (for boning), M/M, Medical Malpractice, Needless Smut, Other, Primus made us do it, Technical Robot Pregnancy, dubcon, wet sloppy robot sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-06-30
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:20:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SadistSenpai/pseuds/SadistSenpai
Summary: In which Rung has an unprofessional yet strangely influential Id, Fortress Maximus is just trying to get better, and Primus has an agenda that no so-called 'reserved' mortal self can stop.
Relationships: Fortress Maximus/Rung
Series: Id and Ego [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1820557
Comments: 5
Kudos: 77





	Strictly Unprofessional

Maximus wasn't doing well.

Things were better than they could be, of course, but the progress made in each session wasn't much. The nightmares persisted, reactions snapped at the slightest outreached hand, and the very murmur of something related to a trigger resulted in a several-cycle breakdown.

They'd processed a tiny portion of his trauma already. 

Progress  _ is _ possible, daunting as it may be: normally, at this point, he'd consider involving or switching the case to another provider, to see if they made a better connection. But, locked in the middle of nowhere with only the option of Quintessons available (and the process already started for a mechanical who does not trust easily), he doesn't have much of a choice. 

Protocol (as much as one can exist for a mech of the mind, especially an unaffiliated one with his own guidelines) dictates that he increase the amount of visits and assist in daily life. Simple enough, he supposes, even as dread builds. Last time he did this sort of process was long ago, on a ship no longer in circulation, and it…

… didn't end well, for him or his client. Being ripped away from each other in the middle of a process only adds to the trauma, nevermind the  _ other  _ effects of prolonged contact. But he’s an older mechanical now, capable of setting boundaries and keeping feelings (physical and emotional) in check. 

So, certain and confident, he lays out his dusty, trusty old DSM manual and gets to work on a schedule. Time is finite in this process and the sooner it can begin, the better. 

( But through that confidence stirs Hope, strange and improper, rearing its head with hungry, golden eyes. )

* * *

And, finally, progress. 

It’s not much. Every flinch that fails to occur is another step, each marked in pride and showered in compliments. Fortress Maximus has improved, even if only slightly, and far ahead of what the prior methods might have made. 

He accompanies Maximus most everywhere now, providing that bit of comfort needed to broach subjects and add stability. He has his breaks of course, and his other clients (the entire ship, sans the stubborn ones), but he can be surprisingly efficient on this schedule. While Maximus doesn’t need him, he can work on notes, other schedules, and even a bit of pleasure reading if the occasion calls for it. 

Maximus even  _ smiles  _ at him on occasion. 

( Still hungry, that gold-eyed Id buried deep  _ rages _ . )

Rung finds himself pleased, despite the cawing of his curious Id. He is more than that insatiable creature, who holds no morals or concepts about what is and isn’t appropriate to do with his clients, and all thus far is well. He can hold out like this for a while yet, at least until Fortress Maximus no longer needs him every second of the day. 

( He has his nights to get the physical needs out, should they appear, anyway. His little hands will never be the same as big ones holding him, pushing him, curling around him, but it’s all he can do. This Id is so  _ loud  _ sometimes. )

But nevermind that. 

( Nevermind, never out of mind. )

* * *

Fortress Maximus is quieter today. 

His duties are the same. Basic cleaning, keeping busy and keeping him around others. But he leaves bigger spots now, forgetting to follow the routine (and routine is everything for mechanicals like him, keeping him rooted in remembering the steps), red optics affixed firmly on the ground even when he’s cleaning a window. 

“Is everything alright?” Rung inquires, following behind his client with the cleaning cart. Maximus had forgotten it a hallway ago. This wouldn’t be the first time he’s disassociated, even with his therapist around, and it’s always best to bring him gently out. Too quick and he’ll reel. 

Maximus’ optics flick to him, sharply, before returning to the ground. “Yes. Sorry. I… haven’t been sleeping well. Worse than usual.”

“Is it the same nightmare?” he follows up, both in speech and speed. Maximus is quick right now, leaving glaring spots behind that they’ll have to get on their next cycle through. That’s fine, really, tho’ it’s uncharacteristic. The warden likes to be clean when he can; dirt reminds him too much of dingy cells. 

“No,” the immense mechanical says, too quickly to be anything but practiced. There’s a timing to practiced speech, unique to each lifeform. He’s quite familiar with Maximis’ pattern by now. “It’s… different. I’d… really rather not discuss it. Sorry.”

A hand reaches out, slow enough that it can be evaded or pushed away, to rest on a heavy hip. Maximus flinches, optics jerking to meet his, but all he finds is a soft smile. “That’s alright. If you feel like telling me, or want to say something in private, please say so. I’m always here if you need me.”

Maximus gives him a strange, long look. It lasts a moment too long to be typical (again, another pattern) before he pulls away, heat gathering in his face. It’s an uncomfortable stare, for both of them, and he doesn’t like it. 

(The Id adores it, calls out to it, croons for it. It likes those hands and it likes how learned this one is and it likes how  **big** he is. )

* * *

Max ( _ Maixmus _ ,  **Maximus** , don’t get too familiar) has been looking more and more exhausted.

There’s a real beauty to this method of therapy. He can see problems arise or progress change on a day to day basis. He can face each problem immediately, rather than having to wait for a decacycle to have to deal with the stewed-up result. For clients like this, that immediate reaction is priceless.

What  _ isn’t  _ priceless, he thinks, is that Maximus’ sleep cycle seems more and more disturbed. He’s not there for that (that’s the next step if this doesn’t get any better), but the problem has persisted for most of this process. Maximus doesn’t want to discuss it, like many things, but they’re out of time for Max to have processed it on his own. 

So, today, they focus on deep-cleaning his office. 

In the quiet privacy of a room that has not, will not, and will never have security cameras, Rung (wielding a dozen datapads, condensing the work upon them) delicately pipes up. “May we discuss the dreams you are having?”

Maximus, who was taking a cloth to the upper vents (they always get clogged), pauses. “I’d rather if we didn’t.”

“Your sleep is getting worse.” he replies, setting Whirl’s datapad aside. Still active, no new updates, doing quite well considering. “The next step in helping that would be to be there for your sleep cycle until it improves. If you’d like me to do that, that’s fine.”

Maxmius flinches. “They’re… not  _ polite _ .”

“Few dreams are.” he sets down a datapad (Rodimus’, mostly observational notes) to settle a hand on Maximus’ side (on the hip, he can only reach so high, gods below he’s so  _ big _ ). “They are memories and thoughts, all collecting into one info dump across our sleepcycle. We need to experience them, just as we need to process them, otherwise they’ll only get worse.”

Maximus is silent. He scrubs harder at the vent, bending slats under the weight of his heavy hands. 

“... Maximus,  _ please _ . I don’t want to invade your private space by organizing a sleep session.”

“ **No** ! No… no sleep studies.  _ Please _ .” the warden snaps. Cloth bunches up in his hand, snapping off a slat, but no effort is made to make optic-contact. Such is expected of Maximus. It’s easier for him to focus on a point than a face and, frankly, isn’t much of a problem. “They’re… not polite. They’re about  _ you  _ and they’re  _ terrible _ . I don’t… want you to think poorly of me because of them.”

Rung’s head tilts, smiling through the nervousness building. Dreams are just dreams, of course. Memories, thoughts, everything puddled into some little show. It’s natural that someone he spends so much time with would appear in his dreams. “I wouldn’t. Something as simple as a dream cannot break the relationship of a doctor and his patient. If such were the case, Ratchet wouldn’t be able to work on  _ anyone _ .”

The joke isn’t appreciated. 

“Can you be more specific?” he dares to pry, taking a step back to return to his work. Adopt normalcy, give him space. Let him work through things with his hands. “As much as you feel comfortable.”

Maximus doesn’t answer for a few minutes, not until he takes some nicknacks off the shelf to dust. The soft cloth drags across the shelf, slow and shaking. His words are slow and paced, thoughts wanting to pour but fear keeping them back. “It’s… been mostly…  _ fragging  _ dreams.”

Silence weighs heavier than he’d like it to. He doesn’t want to shame poor Max, because that will only make him feel worse, but worry crests and lengthens his reactions. “...  _ ah _ . Well, not to worry. That’s quite common. You and I do spend some time together. Dreams ought to spawn from that.”

“Really?” Maximus looks relieved. Despite his cresting concerns, he smiles broad and bright, relieving his charge further. “Thank Primus. That’s a terrible weight off my back. I… was worried you’d hate me for it.”

“Of course not,” he chimes, as his Id screams and begs within its golden cage. “You are my client, after all. These are all things I’ve seen before.”

* * *

Maximus is doing better now. He, on the other hand, is doing worse.

Max’s confession seems to have appealed to his Id too much. Moments pass in appreciation of that strong frame and large hands, valve cycling down at the slightest touch or smile. He’s had stains creep down his thighs, swiped away with a cleaning cloth when he’s certain no one’s watching. His fluid production is up, providing those stains and a panel that he has to furiously clean before he gets to work. 

It’s not good. 

He forgets, sometimes, that the reaction of his Id (or whatever curse this may be, perhaps linked to the forgetfulness that surrounds him) affects both him and the target. Maximus is likely plagued by similar feelings, each given excuses and stowed away to keep things from escalating. 

Knowing better than to fall to the want (he wants,  _ oh  _ he  **wants** ), he continues to shove things down. Be professional, Rung, be professional. 

( The Id tuts, chiding that strength. It  _ wants _ , so it will  **have** . )

* * *

A decacycle later (the length in time between most sessions, to buy time before his Id’s affect plagues), they’re back in his office. 

Dirt piles up quickly here. It’s odd, he supposes, but it’s not as if his clients tend to be the cleanest. Whirl, frankly, never bathes enough and Rodimus leaves a thin layer of soot wherever he sits. So they dust the shelves and he organizes the datapads, speaking quietly of things that matter and things to help. 

Maximus seems distracted. He, rather hopefully, assumes it to be pertaining to the difficult subject they’re discussing. 

And, so hopeful that he is, he doesn’t notice a chair scooting into harm’s way as he walks over to return a datapad to the shelf, drawn by a golden thread. He even takes a moment to feel absolutely baffled as he trips upon it, sending datapads flying. He  _ knows  _ he didn’t leave it there, because it would have been in the way of his typical paths. 

What he does notice, however, is that Maximus caught him. In the palm of one enormous hand, his body thrums to life and embarrassingly reacts. 

Max stares at him, agape, and the fluid that now coats his palm. There’s no denying what it is. Oil isn’t as slippery nor as softly shaded, opalescent between immense fingers. His face burns as Maximus touches the substance with his other hand, staring at it with a long, strange look. 

“I’m sorry,” he squeaks out, humiliated. “I’m so sorry. This is so unprofessional of me, I  _ swear  _ I cleaned up before I got here. I-if you could just put me do _ \--mmfh _ !”

His own hands, traitorous, bolt up to silence him. Try as he might, they refuse to lower. His Id is demanding, begging,  _ pleading  _ now, because it wants so terribly much. Maximus seems lost to it, his tongue darting out to taste the rainbow slick upon his fingertips. He seems to enjoy it, much to his therapist’s concern.

Rung’s panel, old enough to not have the automatic grate of modern designs, clicks open. 

There’s a brief scuffle, of him being placed upon his poor, poor desk and Maximus trying to navigate ancient designs, but his panel’s cover is eventually tossed away to expose his valve. He doesn’t have a spike, as many mechanicals of his time had to purchase the mods for their chosen equipment separately and he never got around to installing anything more than his valve, but Max doesn’t seem concerned with that. A broad, flat glossa laps against the slick practically coating his equipment, sopping it up like something sweet.

His breath hitches as that glossa runs against his valve. Incentivized by that tiny noise, the warden breaches protective labia to lap around the opening. He rims it with just the tip before plunging the length into a valve that hasn’t been used (well, by someone else) in a few vorns, sending sparks up his doctor’s frame. 

( The Id croons, happy. It wants more, like a golden puppeteer above them, moving them to the tune of its beat. )

Soft hiccupping gasps escape Rung’s throat, spilling between his hands. Max’s glossa was already the size of his own meager fingers, stretching him open as the warden buries his head between thin thighs. The tip barely brushes a mid-set bundle of nerves and he practically jumps, moans echoing out. 

Maximus’ breath huffs against his valve, with even that stimulating the little node between his labia, as red optics meet his and a hand lifts. A finger enters him, smoothly thrusting in and out, with another adding in with every moaning apex. Two feels like a smaller toy (he… may have a poor definition of small), three feels full, and four stretches him like the toys he had to take hours working himself up for. His valve is happy to stretch, straining only when the fourth digit is added in. 

Max is hunched over now, spike bobbing between his legs. It’s far bigger than four fingers. 

He leans down, mouthing Rung’s neck, working him through and through. Softly, uncertain (lost in the golden scent around them, so terribly wanting), he begs; “Please,  _ please  _ tell me you want this.  _ Please _ . I want you so  _ badly _ .”

His hands disengage from around his mouth, but the voice that slips out doesn’t feel like his own. It feels honeyed, wanton, certain in ways that he’d never be. It… doesn’t even really feel like a voice, he thinks, or as much as he can think right now. “ **Yes. Please.** **_Please_ ** **. Take me, fill me, love me.** **_Please_ ** **, Max.** ”

Maximus sighs, relieved. His hand leaves Rung’s spread valve, lifting one to taste the fluids there (tinted gold, gold,  _ gold _ ,  _ why  _ **gold** ?) before he takes himself in hand and, carefully, guides himself in. It’s still a stretch, because it  _ has  _ to be with a spike  **easily** as thick and long as his calf, but  _ holy Primus  _ (the Id laughs, strangely) it feels…

His back arches, gasps spilling from his mouth. Little hitching ones follow as Max steadily works himself in, with small thrusts that push his valve open another aperture. The warden’s spike is long and paneled, with the edges between each increased width marked in a little ridge. He tries counting it, as if that could ground him, but it feels like he’s in the dozens before Maximus bottoms out. Red optics are locked on his, looking strangely sleepy (hypnotized, maybe, gold reflecting), and a line of saliva bridges his lips as his breath heaves in his chest.

“ **Move, please.** ” he speaks, tho’ it still doesn’t sound like him. It feels like a third party here, someone watching them both, feeling them both. 

Maximus obeys, as if he was waiting for the command. His spike jolts in and out, an immense hand holding him up as the other grasps at his thigh, keeping it spread. He doesn’t think he could close them, even if he wanted to. He feels stuffed, breaking optic contact to watch as the metal of his abdomen bends with each thrust, soft protoform molding around it. He shouldn’t be able to take something of this size: one-size-fits-all protoforms and subspace mods are the tech of modern mechanicals, not ancient clockwork creatures like himself. 

But, he supposes, it’s not new: his last…  _ incident  _ had the same thing happen, what with that mechanical and this mechanical being similar in size. It’s as if his frame was specifically designed to cater to giants. 

( As Maximo’s spike bottoms out, jarring the deepest nodes, he has a sudden feelings/thought/memory of someone immense and gold, lined with spikes, with horns easily his partner’s size. The sensory feeling of grasping wings fades upon the next thrust, directly jamming into that sensitive node bundle. )

His abdomen feels tight, like a knot pulled further and further with every thrust. A ridge catches on his rim, shoving in with a wet pop, and he feels himself tense. The knot ties shut and then, promptly, unravels with a soft, choked wail. Fluid gushes where they’re joined, bubbling past the plug holding him open. 

Maximus pauses, looking concerned. And small hands (feeling nothing like himself, gold filling his visible biolights) jerk up, grasping around the warden’s neck as he pulls himself up with a strength not his own. He settles back down on that spike, refusing to leave it, and begins to roll his hips. 

“ **_More_ ** .” he demands. A  _ please _ , choked out, follows after. 

Maximus, seemingly contect, happily obeys. He grasps Rung’s hips (in one hand, in one hand!) and raises him up and down his spike, moving him like one of those little toys that he sees advertised sometimes. It’s called a sleeve, he thinks. He certainly feels like he’s been made, forced, to fit a giant’s spike, falling limp as it sinks ever-deeper into him. 

Max’s spike swells, moments later. Uncharacteristic of his Id, it stops and disengages. It lifts itself off Maximus and wobbles for the desk, falling upon it with his aft held up. Breathing heavily, he finds himself reaching back to spread his stretched, battered valve open. Fluid drips, soaking the poor, cracked datapads below. 

“ **Breed me, please.”** the Id demands, fingers full of golden strings. Maximus jerks forward and sinks in, optics fogged as he mindlessly frags forward. 

Briefly, Rung surfaces enough to consider the absurdity of the situation. Breeding was for organics. It’s a cute fantasy, he supposes, and he wouldn’t deny the feeling left by seeing organics full of life (he wants that, he  **wants** that, he  _ needs  _ it, so many are gone now and he  _ needs to fill the void _ ), but to actually try and entice another using it?

… well, it clearly worked. Maximus was working him like a properly bred organic, grasping a leg to pull them closer. His optics were unfocused, saliva dripping down his chin, spike swelling further as it sought to burst. Soft groans echoed in that immense chest, biolights flaring as he thrusts, thrusts, thrusts--

\--and  _ comes _ .

Fluid pours into him, that senseless transfluid (meant to mimic organic copulation but lacking the actual systems to function) gushing in. His position on his knees, chest pressed against the desk, keeps most of it inside; what doesn’t fit oozes out the seal, bubbling down his legs. Even that felt like a lot, tho’ he knew (somehow, strangely) that 94% of it remained inside. He would have liked for  _ all  _ of it to stay inside, he laments (strangely, strangely, he doesn’t feel like himself). 

Maximus steps back with a huff, deflating spike popping out with a wet, erotic sound. He falls back into a chair and heaves air through his vents, optics locked on the ceiling. Rung, worried, tries to get up: but, alas, the Id keeps him in place, savouring as the transfluid drips down through him.

Strange, he thinks. He doesn’t remember having an extra tank there. 

* * *

The next day comes too soon. He thinks to cancel their appointment, worried how it might appear, but he doesn’t want Maximus to feel guilty. So he cleans himself up, applies an extra lock to his panel, and heads to his office.

Everything is as it was before the incident. Even the chair that started it all was in the same place, with nary a stain to remember the event. It was almost as if nothing happened.

And Maximus seems the same way. He looks better rested, at least, and he seems to have processed some of his trauma on his own during the night. He doesn’t exhibit any sign that he recalls anything of the day before, with nary a stare towards plating nor a guilty glance towards the desk. He says he’d rather be on his own today, because he feels a bit more confident in being able to hold himself together in a minor emergency.

It’s good progress.

And he supposes he isn’t surprised. The last Incident ended in the same memory failure, as if the curse of forgetfulness applied even here. Were it not for the fullness in his abdomen, around that mystery tank, he’d think it was just a vivid, wonderful dream.

But it wasn’t. And he’s left alone in his office, the only participant left beside the quiet Id. 

* * *

And several decacycles later, he cancels work for the day because he doesn’t feel well.

It takes some time, his throat hurting and nausea strong, but, eventually, a crystal makes its way up his throat and into his hand. It’s an odd, pretty thing, he thinks: it’s red, like Maximus’ optics, and big enough to fill his small hand. 

The Id, no longer quiet, croons. 

**Author's Note:**

> And then they all lived happily ever after.  
> Or not, because Rung fought a moon and then everyone forgot about him.  
> RIP.


End file.
